


By Any Name

by hakura0



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), London Spy, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crossover Pairings, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7430121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakura0/pseuds/hakura0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories don't end, they just become another story.</p><p>Danny Holt moves on, remembers, heals - and in the process, buries himself as well.</p><p>It's never as dark as all of that though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Name

It had been something like five years since the body of an MI6 agent had been found, official reasons for his death bouncing between foul play and an accident. The specific location of the discovery had led the general public's mind to wander.

He remembered it all too well; layered over with the scent of burning ink and thin paper. One implicating headline too many.

It was all a raw wound, if he touched on the memory for too long. It - Alex - had been the catalyst for everything. A romantic would say that Danny had died when Alex did, or when he discovered his body. But life itself had not ended; Only life as he had known it.

Everything after was a sort of blur now. Of searching and finding and being told that he should do whatever he could to avoid being seen as a threat.

Hs parents had always told him that he couldn't listen worth shit.

Strangely, he had a knack for all of it or at the very least a drive for it, especially computers. He had mucked about with them back when he was in school, before he'd wandered off the path. It came back almost too easily.

It was part job offer and part witness protection in the end, he thought. He hadn't had anywhere else to go by that time anyway. He had found his answers and what revenge could be paid had already been charged, the receipt given. 

There was a line of thinking that would imply he had followed Alex into MI6, in essence. Accepted the extra training that they gave, learned and waited and learned some more, the numbers that had been Alex's specialty at his fingertips all the way.

But Danny's name wasn't on any of the paperwork. There was a different name there, new and strange. He pulled himself together and out of step at the same time to better match it. To fit the image.

By the time the explosion hits, he could almost pretend to himself that it was natural.

There is a rush of...something, when the Quartermaster title is given to him. He isn't entirely sure whether it is pride or relief at the further simplification.

He has long stopped wondering, by force of will, what Alex may have thought of this. Of him, and the massive turn of events.

Once upon a time Danny had been accused of loving falling in love. He avoided it now, with as heavy of a hand as he could. He knew better than to bring some unsuspecting person into this. 

More than that...he knew better than to fall in love with a spy.

He brushes up on 007 before their meeting, as best he can with the set up that is available to him. Clearance at the least, is no problem.

He plans out the meeting as best he can, the underlying tone respect me and otherwise keep back. You don't like me.

It fails, not far short of spectacularly. 

While 007 is in China he takes the opportunity to skim the results of the other man's tests. A stubborn old ship then, he mutters to himself. Dredged up from the bottom of the ocean, ha. 

No one is around to hear.

They bicker, back and forth, forth and back, and Q discovers that he quite likes exasperating him. It's only fair, after all. Almost enough to distract him from his own colassal cock-up of giving Silva access to the systems.

There is something reassuring after, in the rumor mill and the way that it spins. Old reports and stories of the numerous trysts the man had previously seemingly enjoyed. They made it a hair easier to accept that Bo- -- 007's -- default mode of communication was in fact flirtation and dry humour. 

So it goes.

They, Q thinks, though the tremor of his hand belongs to someone else entirely - some long forgotten person who wouldn't have even known quite who 'they' were - had really got to get better about security. 

He is mostly unharmed, for the more physical definition of the word but unerringly rattled. Mark his words, one more successful breaking into the headquarters and he was going to insist on working from home.

The emptiness of the place at this point is a godsend. It gives him the opportunity to get the taste out of his mouth, to get his things sorted again for when they will inevitably move again. At some point the dead man will most definitely need to be moved.

Bond has no reason to be standing in his doorway, until his thoughts clear and oh, he does. The gun in his hand is likely warm yet, and he can recall the echo of the shot. It explains the faint ringing in his ears, the sort of slow quality that sound has.

He clears his throat and Bond clears his own in response. Before the older man can talk he has an 'I'm fine' readied in his throat out of so much instinct, memories somehow clearer now behind the fog of his addled hearing.

"I'm taking you for a drink," Bond says.

"I'm fine," he replies, automatically, and Bond ignores the out of place statement.

"And for a few gun lessons." There is concern lining his face when Q looks at him, and it takes everything that he has not to let an 'Oh, fuck.' slip out. It is, he thinks, the barest that he has ever seen Bond's expression and damn if he does not hate spies.

"Pardon?" Bond asks, and Q's palm is covering his face before he can realize that his best was, apparently not enough.

"I said, I don't drink." Q responds with an aloof half smile, or what he would very much like to be one. 

"Dinner then."

Q is pleased to discover that he does manage not to laugh out loud, but his head is swimming, and he only has so much willpower.

"Fine." He notes, almost idly, trying to keep desperation from his voice. "But it will have to be my place. I'll cook."

Bond raises a brow but he smiles, and if Q didn't know better he would believe there was relief on his face.

"I'll have to insist that the gun lessons take place elsewhere, of course."

"My place." Bond states simply, like he had been waiting for the opportunity the entire time. Q rolls his eyes, and tries not to be dizzy.

There is a hand on his arm shortly after, and he lets it steady and lead him. He did not expect the ambulance at the end of the journey, and it feels like almost a betrayal after the thoughts of his flat. 

"Later." he hears Bond tell him, and there is a stain on the other man's jacket he did not notice before. 

"This," Q mutters as the doors close, his voice some relic dragged forward through time by probably-shock. "is an awful first date." He can hear Bond laugh in response, but he doesn't say anything and Q lets the EMT have the rest of his attention.

Eventually, they order in Chinese, awkward on Q's little couch and his cat steals Bond's chopstick.

It's almost a year before there is a mission, the sound of a shot, and then darkness and silence. There is a week, after, where there is nothing and then Q's phone rings like nothing has happened and he hasn't started to touch again upon the edge of madness, of numbness.

"Those ear pieces could do with being a bit sturdier," Bond tells him, nonchalant. He cries, but not until he has read him the riot act about responsibility, defended the sturdiness of the hardware and demanded his swift return. Not until after they have hung up and the phone rings again, three little words, quiet, --- "Are you alright?"

They go to his flat later that night, after reports and travel and paperwork. There is a fresh bandage when James takes off his shirt, and he frowns at him. Frowns at the way that James almost shrugs, reaching out gently and removing his glasses. 

"It takes a lot more than this to finish me off," James tells him, "Ask Moneypenny."

He cries again, from frustration more than anything else, from a week of fear. There are arms around him a moment later, warm, reassuring, alive. It would almost be enough to make him feel silly for worrying if it wasn't for the strength of the returning grip.

There is a part of him that knows that now is the time to let go. That now is the time to tell him off again, to ask exactly how he thought he got off not re-opening communications before it had been a bloody week.

He doesn't, and the upset wears him out until he loosens his hold, leans up and kisses James instead.

"I missed you," James tells him when their lips finally part.

"That - that's an understatement," he lets himself admit. 

They sleep for the better part of a day, after. He hesitates in the morning, but in the end he doesn't put back on the glasses that have become almost second nature to him over the past few years.

He explains what feels like everything as James cooks breakfast, stumbling over words and between cadences, rubbing at the oddly empty places on his face where the glasses would have fit. In the end, the food burns and they order a pizza for lunch instead, while James starts, haltingly, to talk about Scotland, and Danny rests his head on his lap.


End file.
